Page 28 of Savage

KICK

If I have to sit through one more fucking conversation with Crazy about the brain-dead little Asian pop tart he’s banging, I’m going to pull my gun and unload an entire bloody clip into his face.

We’re sitting in the clubhouse lounge on a black leather sofa that’s seen so many fucking cum-stains you’d need a Hazmat suit in order to remain unscathed. Truth be told, I’m pretty sure the seat of my jeans are wet because Killer just got done banging the shit out of Brooke on this very cushion five minutes before I sat down.

Crazy pulls the lighter from his pocket, flips the lid, rolls his thumb over the flint and watches the flame dance in front of his eyes. Jesus Christ, that’s the nineteenth fucking time he’s done that in the span of twenty minutes. He flips the lid closed and slides it back in his cut. I drink down the rest of my schooner and wish I could just lie the fuck down without some arsehole wanting to strike up a fucking conversation. I haven’t slept properly in days. I’ve gone from the floor to the armchair and back again, because some bitch has been in my bed, and it just isn’t right.

Crazy produces the lighter again and flips back the lid; the metalpingand then the spark as his thumb strokes the wheel is the sound of me losing it. I completely fucking snap, snatching the lighter off him and dumping it into the jug of beer in front of us. Then I close my eyes and sink further down into the soft leather, resting my head against the headrest.

“Dude, what the fuck?” Crazy flies into a flurry, his knickers in a fucking twist as he plunges his hand into the jug to retrieve his Zippo. Beer sloshes out the side and over the jacked-up coffee table, which has probably seen more cumshots than the couch. He pulls out the lighter and wipes it off on his shirt, flipping back the lid and rolling his thumb over the roller. It throws off a few tiny sparks and he stares at it, looking forlorn, as if he’s trying to will the fucking thing to life. He runs the roller across the pant leg of his jeans and attempts to light it again. “No, no, no, no, no, no, no,” he mutters. “You killed it, arsehole.”

“It’s a Zippo, you crazy fuck. It’s not like you don’t have a drawer full of them anyway.”

“I won’t forget this, Kick,” he says resolutely, and I chuckle, because the expression on his face is the funniest fuckin’ shit I’ve seen all week.

“Great, I look forward to you kicking my head in later. Now fuck off, I’m trying to get some sleep.”

Crazy stalks away, muttering under his breath. I swear to God, the longer I spend with my club brothers, the more I wonder how Prez expects to be at the forefront of the one per-centers, leading the way in organised crime. With arseholes like Crazy and Country among our ranks the Savage Saints is closer to a fucking geriatric ward at a mental asylum than an MC.

Raine bends over in front of me to wipe up the spilled beer. I have a front row seat to the best fucking natural cleavage in the house. My dick stirs, but I’m bone fucking tired. Raine looks tired, too. She has on too much eye make-up, and her skirt’s a lot shorter than anything I’ve seen her wear so far. She’s sexy as fuck, but she doesn’t need all that shit. In fact, it kind of looks like she’s playing dress-up in her junkie mother’s clothes.

“You need another refill, Kick?” she asks, scooping up the half-empty jug and straightening. She catches me staring at her tits and blushes. It’s endearing as fuck, and on any other given day I’d bend her over the sofa and fuck her in the middle of the room where everyone and anyone could see her ’til she’d forgotten the meaning of the word embarrassment.

“Nah, I’m good,” I say, kicking my feet up on the coffee table she just cleaned. She shoos me off, and I see one of those rare smiles from her.

“You get your muddy boots off my table, Mister. I don’t want to give Jett a reason to fire me.”

“Prez isn’t gonna fire you, darlin’.”

“Yeah, well, I can’t afford to take that chance. I can’t shoot a gun, and I don’t ride a motorcycle, so unless I’m doing my job properly, I’m not much use to him.”

I laugh, wondering how she’s so completely oblivious. “I’m sure he’d find other uses for you, Raine.”

She shakes her head and carries the jug and our empty glasses to the bar, dumping them in the sink. As she clears the bar, she snags the bottle of black Sambuca and then leans over to grab a clean shot glass. Her already short skirt rides up, and I catch a glimpse of a white lacy G-string. I tilt my head for a better look and say roughly, “I’m sure we could all find plenty of other uses for you, darlin’.”

“Stop,” she warns, walking towards me on her spiked heels. There’s a rejuvenated skip to her step, though. Raine sits down on the couch beside me, placing the shot glass on the coffee table. She fills it and hands it to me. I down the shot and slam it back on the table, signalling for her to pour another. When she’s done, I lift the glass and offer it to her. She smiles and shakes her head. “I don’t drink while I’m working.”

“Drink the motherfuckin’ shot, darlin’.” I hold it to her lips, and she tries turning her head away. I grasp the nape of her neck in my hands, tipping her head back along with the shot so that she has no choice but to open unless she wants it spilled down the front of her top. “Thatta girl, open up and say ah.”

She glares at me when I pull the shot glass away, but I’m distracted by the drop of Sambuca that’s escaped the corner of her mouth and is running down her face. I pull her towards me and run my tongue along her throat, collecting the droplet off her chin. I smash my lips into hers, forcing my tongue into her sweet little mouth, tasting the liquor on her breath. She makes a sound of protest and tries to ease away, but I hold her to me until I’m done trying to wrench an emotion other than frustration from my consciousness. I draw a big fucking blank.Surprise, sur-fucking-prise.

I release her and flop back into the couch, defeated, horny, and feeling like I have a fucking conscience. I don’t fucking like it.

“Kick …” Raine begins

“Nah, it’s alright, darlin’.” I lean forward and grab the bottle from the table, taking a hefty swig of the stuff that tastes like shit, but it keeps me from thinking about the rock-hard cock tucked away in my jeans that I’m ignoring. I pat her knee with my free hand. “I got enough bitches to contend with as it is. Besides, Prez would probably kick my arse anyway.”

“Why would he kick your arse? Because I’m the hired help?”

I laugh. “Oh sweetheart, tell me you’re not that fucking clueless?”

“Screw you,” she says and stands, getting ready to huff off in a fucking pansy-arsed little bitch fit.

I grab her arm and yank her back down onto the couch. “The man wants in your sweet little lacy knickers, Raine.”

“But he’s married?”

“Yes, he is.” I take another swig from the bottle.

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